


Without You

by TaPanda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Post Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sad, eulogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaPanda/pseuds/TaPanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A first person stylized fic centered around John Watson as he talks about the things he has lost now that Sherlock is gone. Post-Reichenbach. </p><p>Title from Rent! and the idea (very) loosely based off the song "Without You" from Rent!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, my greatest therapy tool has been rendered completely useless. I had to keep a blog for my own wellbeing, did I? It was supposed to help me get better, I was told. It was supposed to help me sort through my feelings and learn how to trust people more after everything that happened in Afghanistan. I was told to talk about even the more mundane things in my life.

Now that blog is my tattoo, my permanent reminder that the one thing I really needed is now gone.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, I have lost all balance. They said to keep the cane. “You never know when something bad can happen to your leg, with all of the running around you and he do together.” As much as I didn’t want to listen I had to agree, had to say that everything was still as unstable as before.

Now I stare at it, loathing, eyes boring into it, imagining the metal searing. Every time I reach for it, leg aching, my hand burns, my eyes cloud. My true crutch is gone.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, I have nothing to do with my life, nobody to argue with. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.” They said. “He’s a psychopath.” “One of these days we’re going to be looking at a body, and he’s going to be the one who put it here.” They told me to get a hobby, something else to do. “Fishing, try fishing.” They told me to distance myself, to not be attached.

Now I sit here all alone with nothing to do because of my own foolish pride, my own inability to see that something was wrong. I have no hobbies; there was only him.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, you mad and crazy person, I don’t know what to do. You were my everything. You were my reason to get a job, you were the reason I met new people and made new friends. 

Now I can’t even go to see them, because they remind me of you.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, I can hardly go to the store anymore. I get no more texts just saying “We’re out of milk. –SH” and I don’t have anyone to tell when I get into a row with the chip and pin machine anymore.

Now I can’t even have tea anymore, because I always grab two cups.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, I have no security. You aren’t there to soothe my fears and make everything better. You aren’t there in the odd hours of the night when I wake up after a particularly frightening nightmare, coffee already in a cup, steaming and waiting for me. I have nobody with whom I can share my deepest fears.

Now I can’t even leave my room when it happens, because the emptiness is much worse.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, I have nobody to share the emptiness of the flat with. I can sit there and read the paper or turn on the television or even just sit and eat takeaway, but it is empty, hollow, nothing there, no warmth. 

Now I don’t spend time in the flat, because without your sounds, it no longer feels like home.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, there are no wild midnight chases, kidnappings from your brother, or threats from various serial killers. There is no more going to Scotland Yard at odd hours or sleeplessly pouring through papers. There is no more going to Bart’s to look at corpses or help you experiment on random bits of humans in the apartment. There is no more patching you up after you get hurt, no more patching me up after I get hurt protecting you.

Now I don’t even want to see a scalpel or microscope. What a sorry sight this doctor makes, no longer able to perform.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, there is nobody who can talk to me. There is nobody who will sit and listen when I get home to say things, nobody there that will care about the things I have to say. There is nobody to pick up a violin and start playing to tell me I’ve talked enough. There is no one to irritate me and make me angry and then calm me down again with your gentle looks and hushed tones, those you saved for me and only me.

Now I am but a corked bottle, my bottle opener forever lost.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, there is no one to look up to. There is nobody deserving of the praise “brilliant” or “wonderful” because you have biased me. There is no one to stare at dumbfounded our awestruck. There is no one to try and be brilliant for.

Now I push these praises to the back of my mind, and once again learn to live with mundane.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, there is nobody in my heart. There are no more chaste kisses before going into public, no more hands running down my chest or crawling into bed behind you for a shag instead of going straight to the station after Lestrade calls. There are no more long willowy legs wrapped around me, no more slender fingers running through my hair. There are no more curls to straighten in post-coital bliss. There are no eyes to stare into, no lips with which to brush my own upon, no warmth, no thin frames and wiry muscles and absolutely no comfort of you. There is no one to talk to about our secret, our deepest secret.

Now I am horribly heartsick, lovelorn, forever an unknown widower. You stole my heart, jumped off the building with it, had it buried along with you in the grave.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, there is no one for me to love. I sit and my heart aches, missing you; my mind races, wondering why you would do something like that. I refuse to listen to what others have to say. You didn’t do all those things to me, you couldn’t. You loved me as I loved you. To go on loving you is all I can do.

Now I have no one to love, no one who loves me.

 

Without you, Sherlock Holmes, there is no need to do anything. I was complete. For the time you were here, my life was filled, my life was happy despite the good and bad, and there was smiling and laughing and joy.

Now I am incomplete. There is nothing. Empty. Gone. Broken. Without you.


End file.
